It's luck that found him a pair of jeans. (His.) Luck got him out of the bloody chaosy wreckage and out into the open space of--wherever the hell this is, whatever is going on. In the torn out broken shape of what's passing for a door to the free world, at the top of the arduous climb, Sirius hauls himself up, and stops--not out of fear, more like a dog that's caught a scent. Looking out across the chaos for a moment, ears pricked. Even blank, he's not a panicker. The heavy thud of his heart has got nothing on the roiling grumble of thunder.
Rain lashes his longish hair to his forehead. He paws the fringe out of his eyes, his hand scudding a little at the catch of that blank space where his left ring finger ought to be. Ought to? The hesitation makes him put his hand in front of his face. Reddish light from the ruined structure behind him illuminates: three fingers, one thumb. For all he knows, it's always been that way.
It's a shout that gets his attention, snaps his gaze into sharper focus. Figures, shadowed, violent in their movements. Something very like instinct clicks into place. Left hand goes to his side, a gesture that he cuts off, confused by himself. What the hell was he grabbing for? But now that his hand is there: in the pocket of his jeans, he finds a stick. Twelve inches, dark wood, one end thicker than the other, a natural place to grip. There's something weird about taking it in hand. His whole arm feels warm, all the way down to his fingertips.
Another shout, and a scream. Sirius jumps down from the wreckage he's stood on, right out into the teeth of the storm. Wind whips foliage around his legs, and a moment of dizziness makes him reel, grab on to a twisted metal beam for brief support. The shout echoes again. One of the figures has a knife. Sirius shoves away and strides forward as a crackle of violet lightning forks down from the high dome of stormclouds. In the slippery dark, his shoulder slams into some other stumbling someone. Impatient, intent on the other scene, he shoves someone away. Snarls: "Move--"
Later: wide-eyed, with blood smeared on his face along with the rainwater, he's got jumpsuit bunched in each fist. The stick is back in his pocket. The jumpsuit belongs to a man, who Sirius is dragging away by the shoulders. The man's head lolls to one side at an uncanny angle. He is bleeding from somewhere on his forehead. A rock snags his sleeve, and catches. Sirius loses his footing in the mud and loses his grip as he falls. He lands heavy. "Fucking--"
The word cuts clear even through the rumble and boom of thunder. He wastes no time in picking himself up again, and grabbing hold of his victim to drag him off toward the jungle again. He probably looks mental. He might actually be mental.
[IMPORTANT OOC NOTE feel free to be the person he bumps into and pushes away, the person getting attacked by misc crewmember, OR the person who finds him dragging bodies into the woods! i can roll with whatever ok thnx]
outside, ota.
Rain lashes his longish hair to his forehead. He paws the fringe out of his eyes, his hand scudding a little at the catch of that blank space where his left ring finger ought to be. Ought to? The hesitation makes him put his hand in front of his face. Reddish light from the ruined structure behind him illuminates: three fingers, one thumb. For all he knows, it's always been that way.
It's a shout that gets his attention, snaps his gaze into sharper focus. Figures, shadowed, violent in their movements. Something very like instinct clicks into place. Left hand goes to his side, a gesture that he cuts off, confused by himself. What the hell was he grabbing for? But now that his hand is there: in the pocket of his jeans, he finds a stick. Twelve inches, dark wood, one end thicker than the other, a natural place to grip. There's something weird about taking it in hand. His whole arm feels warm, all the way down to his fingertips.
Another shout, and a scream. Sirius jumps down from the wreckage he's stood on, right out into the teeth of the storm. Wind whips foliage around his legs, and a moment of dizziness makes him reel, grab on to a twisted metal beam for brief support. The shout echoes again. One of the figures has a knife. Sirius shoves away and strides forward as a crackle of violet lightning forks down from the high dome of stormclouds. In the slippery dark, his shoulder slams into some other stumbling someone. Impatient, intent on the other scene, he shoves someone away. Snarls: "Move--"
Later: wide-eyed, with blood smeared on his face along with the rainwater, he's got jumpsuit bunched in each fist. The stick is back in his pocket. The jumpsuit belongs to a man, who Sirius is dragging away by the shoulders. The man's head lolls to one side at an uncanny angle. He is bleeding from somewhere on his forehead. A rock snags his sleeve, and catches. Sirius loses his footing in the mud and loses his grip as he falls. He lands heavy. "Fucking--"
The word cuts clear even through the rumble and boom of thunder. He wastes no time in picking himself up again, and grabbing hold of his victim to drag him off toward the jungle again. He probably looks mental. He might actually be mental.
[IMPORTANT OOC NOTE feel free to be the person he bumps into and pushes away, the person getting attacked by misc crewmember, OR the person who finds him dragging bodies into the woods! i can roll with whatever ok thnx]